From My Rotting Body, Flowers Shall Grow
by Comidia Del Arte
Summary: Day in and day out, kept sane by a mentally composed to-do list and a game of one player twenty (more like a thousand) questions. Gwen can't wrap her mind around why she is determined to live, until she meets blunt redneck who refuses to let her go back into self induced solitary.
1. To-Do List

To Do List:

**Wake-up **

**Unbuckle from tree**

**Breakfast: canned pineapple** (what's your name? Gwen Harper)

**Re-apply bite** (mom's name? Caroline Murrin)

**Check supplies** (dad's name? Jacob Harper)

**Check weapons** (sister's name? Lily Harper)

**Check the perimeter** (favorite animal? No, never mind, fuck that question!)

**Take out Nippers** (favorite food, beverage? Ruben at Rouge's Brewery and a Dead Guy's Ale)

**Climb down**

**Apply fresh camouflage** (favorite performers? Pat Benatar, Heart, Yo-Yo Ma)

**Scavenge for supplies** (focus on supplies)

**Keep moving till last light** (sing something? Anxiety by Pat Benatar)

**Set up snares **(don't fuck up this time)

**Pick a new tree** (what kind of trees are they? Looks like an oak or some shit?)

**Climb up **

**Dinner: Beef Jerky and canned fruit** (what would you rather be having? Crab legs with butter)

**Check supplies **(pants are torn to shit, need a new pair)

**Check weapons** (need something better than a meat cleaver)

**Check perimeter** (look for nippers, take them out quietly, no guns)

**Tuck in** (listen for nippers, watch for hands)

**Remember the little things** (tonight's topic includes the glories of sex! Christ, I miss that.)

**Start again tomorrow** (Joy!)

* * *

Day in and day out, the same thing for weeks on end, felt like years. The same thing each morning, noon, and night; staying alive, remembering her name, recalling the past, in the hopes of prolonging the inevitable. The inevitable things composed of being eaten, dying by natural causes, others finding her and using her like a toy, or the simple act of suicide due to madness.

Some nights, she would sleep only to dream that this shit storm was nothing more than a nightmare. Some fucked up flight of not so fancy caused by the chili she ate before bed, the sleeping pills she popped, that stupid zombie marathon she watched on the Chiller channel. In the dream she would get up, enveloped in warm down blankets. Gwen would shower and leave for work. It was so glorious, so wonderfully normal

Such a lovely thought, but it never lasted. Then the sun would seep through her eyelids, and the groaning of nippers would bring her back to reality. The mental to-do list nagging to be completed, every necessary item in need of being checked off, only to be repeated again and again same time the next morning. Different questions to dull the loneliness, to apply some entertainment to the fear that continued to pump through her veins, feeding this insanely stupid desire to remaining among the living, even when occupying that level of being put her on the nippers' menu.

With a smirk, Gwen pressed her back against the trunk of her current bed, prepping her arm for the fake nipper bite, basic defense against any fellow survivors who felt the right to get touchy. It worked once; it had been the fly of the moment decision to try. She had been trapped in Grocery Outlet, not a weapon in sight, by a group of horny bastards who were ready fuck anything female that didn't bite. Gwen took a chance and bit herself, sinking her teeth in enough to break the skin, then she stumbled out, they captured her, she let them, then they saw her arm, rather than rape her, they gave a beating, and left her to turn. Of course now, after so many weeks on her own, Gwen was prepared to face anything, she proved able with a meat cleaver. Though, lack of food left her willowy, almost skeletal, if anyone bigger than her got close enough, they could exhaust her, take her down. Gwen was better off hiding, keeping to the shadows. Out of sight, out of mind when it came to facing fellow survivors. So, if someone overpowered her, who's to say that the fake bite wouldn't be her ace in the hole, worth a shot, worth any possible risk. No dip-shit would want to risk getting his dick bitten off by some nipper.

Your college roommate's name? Becky Hines. That in mind, she started squirting glue all over her arm, apply ripped cotton balls and gunky blood red paint. Those things were in abundance. Who needed paint during the apocalypse? Admiring her work, Gwen deemed it realistic enough and began looking through her supplies, making a note of anything that required restock. What famous writer said "to love another person is to see the face of God?" Victor Hugo. She did need new pants, hers were scraps held to her legs by duct tape, but they would hold for a couple more weeks, give or take. They weren't a priority, right now; snares! She needed to check and see if those things caught something while she slept. Gwen was sick of beef jerky, and some of the pieces were growing hair.

Shoving all her supplies into her bag, she zipped it up and threw it over her shoulders. What is one of your favorite films? "In the Name of the Father." Weapons within reach, and after checking for straggling nippers, Gwen climbed down, the rough bark of her one night bed scraping her palms as she let go. The nippers from last night lay strewed about the tree, good sweet merciful fucking God, they reeked something worse than awful. Holding her breath, she knelt down and rubbed her hands over the one whose innards were spilling onto the grass. What was the color of your high school boyfriend's eyes? Green, like the pines. Taking up some of the gunk and black blood, she rubbed it over her arms. These fuckers didn't weren't movers, but they could smell a living from miles away. Gwen felt her breakfast bubbling and climbing up her throat, but she swallowed it down, ignoring the foul taste in her mouth, and putrid stench that was pretty much raping her nose.


	2. Snaring Dinner

Fucking nippers, Gwen gripped her cleaver and brought it down the bitch's head. Brain matter shot off in every direction, painting the blade in gunky black. A particularly huge chuck of decomposing flesh smacked her in the chest. Making a revolting sound as it hit the ground. Snarling, Gwen put her foot into the chest of the nipper and pulled her cleaver from the depths of its head. Reveling in the sound the blade made as it unglued itself from the rotting meat and blackened brains.

A perfectly good rabbit gone to waste, nasty shit had taken more than a few bites out of it. Even if it had been the one bite, she wasn't going to risk that. Kicking the downed nipper aside with her black booted foot, Gwen surveyed the scene; well now she knew the snare worked. She'd been constructing these things based on trial and error. Sneering at the nipper, she pulled the now mangled rabbit from the snare, tossing it aside, while she started to break down the snare, storing it away for later use. At least the guitar strings she scavenged had been worth that life threatening trip to that music store a couple weeks back. Seriously, who'd have thought a trip to a fucking Guitar Center would result in fighting for your life. In the old days, wanting guitar strings wasn't life threatening.

Gwen rested for a second, ignoring the stench of nipper. Out of habit, she ran her thin fingers over her scalp, with the habitual intention to grip her once curly black hair. The hair was no longer there. About a week into the so called apocalypse, she took scissors to it after watching some stupid bitch being taken down simply because her hair had been long enough for the nippers to grab. All that remained were uneven hacks of what had once been. Her hand dropped from her head, hitting the grass dejectedly. A small smile crept into her features, a rare thing these days. She'd had her mother's hair that was how strangers would have figured that she was the daughter of Caroline Murrin. How old were you when mom demanded you take up the violin? I was in the 6th grade, 12 years old. I threw a fit, wanted to play the guitar instead because Carlos Santana was my idol. Perhaps she would have better luck with the other two.

Second snare was a bust, there were nippers though. Another application of camouflage didn't hurt, so not a total loss. The third was actually a success, it was like some glorious holiday, worthy of replacing Christmas or some shit. Gwen smiled as she bagged herself a squirrel, she'd skin it later before she settled in. Tonight she could risk setting a fire. Tonight Gwen intended to eat like royalty, it'd been so long since she'd had anything meat that wasn't beef jerky. Granddad use to tell her all about his hunting trips as a kid, sometimes he would take to grossing Gwen out at the dinner table. Telling her how he'd go about gutting a fresh kill, how he'd cook it. At the time, that crap seemed so useless, but now, Gwen felt she owed the man her life. The set-up of the snares had been drawn from old memories and time spent with the old man when she had been little. True, it took several tries to get it right, but it still caught her some dinner. As she walked, Gwen paused and looked through the branches of the trees, into the skies. It was currently mid-winter, the weather was hinting at snow, or at least that's what it looked like. Gwen knew nothing about Georgia weather; she'd grown up in Oregon, gone to school in New York. Hell, she was only out this way because the family had recently moved to Alabama and she came looking for them…. That trip had not gone well. Mom and Dad turned, Lily, she had gone the easy route. Now, now Gwen was reduced to wandering, Christ, when she drove into Georgia that had been a shock; she didn't think she had been driving for so long (that was about the time when she figured it was best to ditch the car). Time flies when you have nothing left in the world. At least the weather was mild out here, Oregon was either to dry, or it was cold and rained like it was monsoon season. New York was probably drowning in nippers right now.

Her fingers played with the blade of her cleaver. The universe was truly kind in making Granddad die a year before all this happened. Turning her attention front-word, Gwen kept going, calculating her movements over the uneven ground. To fill the quiet accompanied by here and there birds, Gwen verbalized her next question. "What was your Granddad's name? Harold Harper."

Night was on her fast, the very thought of it sent a shiver up Gwen's spine. She could handle the nippers in the daylight, but they could hide in the dark. Sometimes she found herself unable to sleep because her mind kept running over what she would do if those little shits figured out how to climb trees. True, that was highly unlikely, but that didn't stop her from thinking about it. Before she settled in, Gwen hunted for a water source, finding a small brook that ran past her one night campsite. Satisfied Gwen began to make a fire. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a book of matches. Holding them as if they were the most delicate and priceless gems, she struck one and lit some tinder and put it on a collection of sticks that she had managed to gather. Within a couple minutes, she had a fire going. Gwen smiled, grateful that the damn thing caught without the aid of a second match. While the fire grew in size and heat, she pulled out her squirrel and started to gut and clean it. Humming quietly, trying to put her nerves at ease. When the rodent was finally deemed suitable, Gwen pulled a small collection of wild chives out of her bag. She snatched up a clean branch and speared the squirrel, after sprinkling some the cut chives over the meat; she held it over the fire. Probably wasn't going to taste great, but, it was fucking better than beef jerky.

* * *

_**Author's Note: Yes, I've looked around, guitar strings are said to make great snare wire. That aside, tell me what you think?  
**_


	3. The Biker

It wasn't the weak late winter sun that woke her up; it wasn't the sound of nippers groaning as they passed beneath her tree. All that shit, Gwen could easily sleep though until her internal clock forced her to wake. What she couldn't sleep through was this strangely familiar, yet obnoxious roar that carried through the woods. It went for a few minutes and then faded. With a groan, Gwen opened her eyes, waiting, listening. That sound, she knew it; Gwen had heard it enough times in the old days. It sounded like a motorcycle, couldn't be, what moron rode something that loud in the middle of what some would call "the zombie apocalypse?"

Slowly, she sat up straining against the belt she used to anchor herself to the tree. By squinting, she could just make out the rode through the branches. Gwen had always felt it best to stay near some sort of road. Though she was wandering with no ideal location in mind, she still felt it best to have some notion of where she was. She didn't have a map, so road signs were the next best thing. Plus, if she needed emergency supplies, Gwen could easily locate convenience store. Most of them were cleared out by now, but everything could be used to some degree.

Taking into account the nippers hanging bellow the tree, Gwen silently began the process of unlatching herself. Chores could wait till later, she wanted to have look at the roads. Not like she had any intention of showing herself to anyone, but curiosity was a bitch sometimes. Stringing her belt back through the loops of her jeans, she proceeded to fold up her tarp blanket, shoving it into the confines of her pack. Cleaver in the right hand, and gun strapped to her leg within reach, Gwen leapt from the tree. Landing unceremoniously on the back of an unfortunate nipper, who gnashed his teeth and hissed up at her, wanting just a bit of a taste. A blade to the head was enough to silence him, and Gwen moved onto the next nipper, cutting the small pack down as if the bastards were nothing but harvest grain, falling to the scythe.

Once that was taken care of, she stepped through the trees, eyes forever focused on the roads. What if the motorcyclist came back this way? What if it saw her? What would it do? The livings were just as bad as the dead these days. She paused, glancing down at her fake bit. Christ, the damn thing was like her security blanket. It still looked fresh to pass for a nipper bite. If things went bad, she'd flash the bite and run for it. Hopefully the motorcyclist wasn't one of them raping merciful types. Oh the anvil of fucking irony, a merciful rapist, the thought made Gwen's lips twitch with a pained smile.

Picking through the trees, she finally came upon the road. Keeping to the tall grass and the trees, she looked around. Nothing, the rider was long gone. Despite that, Gwen stayed put, waiting, listening, for any possible hint that the motorcycle was coming back. Suddenly, she heard the snarl of a nipper coming up behind her. Wheeling round, she caught the bitch by the neck before she could take a bite out of her, unfortunately dropping her cleaver in the process. The pair fell to the ground, right beside the road "Fucking sneaky cunt!"

Shit, this wasn't good. Sure, Gwen could handle these things with some distance, but once they had ahold of her, getting a killing blow in was easier said than done. God, why did she have to be so damn skinny!? Its teeth clicked as it attempted to take a hunk of flesh from her arm. Holding the thing back, she made a grab for her weapon, only for her fingers to push it along the asphalt and out of reach. The gun! She still had her gun, fuck quiet, she wanted to live. Reaching the leg holster, Gwen grabbed it and shut off the safety. Holding it to the nipper's head, she fired. It fell on top off her, nothing but dead weight. There was silence, the only sound were the wind brushing through the skeletal trees and the shallow breaths that barely made it past Gwen's lips. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and pushed the nipper off, kicking it as far away from her person as possible. Even with the absence of the weight, Gwen still couldn't make herself get up. The most she could do was stare up at the bleak sky, just barely acknowledging the warmth of the blood that started to dot the right leg of her jeans, a mere scrape.

Slowly, she turned and looked at the nipper. Had it not been for the fact that rotting flesh around its jaw was hanging from the bone by a few strings of skin, the thing may have passed for a pretty blonde lady. Gwen focused on its eyes, wide open and tinged a sickly yellow by the virus, despite that, the irises still held onto the warm hazel tones. Gwen blinked, just like her, how long would it be until something got her, how long would it be before she became one of those things? Forcing herself to look away, she took a few deep breaths. Returning her gun to the leg holster she rubbed her eyes. Now was not the time to get emotional. She needed to get up, she needed to move on.

It moved through the air at a dull roar, slow at first in its approach, yet, growing louder and drawing nearer with every second. Sitting up from the ground, Gwen grabbed for her cleaver, prepared to make a run for it. She was just about to breach the safety of the trees, when a thought struck her. The body! Freezing, Gwen spun, eyeing it up and down. She couldn't just leave it there; a nipper with a bullet to the head was a dead fucking give-away, that shot was probably heard for miles around. Her eyes widened, she's just rung the damn dinner bell. Gwen had to make a choice, which was more dangerous, the stranger on the motorcycle or a herd of nippers?

Fingernails digging into her palms, Gwen tucked her hung her cleaver in the duct tape holder she made and ran back to the body, taking hold of the thing by the shoulders. She proceeded to drag it off the road. Huffing and cursing as she went. "Common you mangy bitch, common."

Christ! Here she thought this thing weighed a ton before. Gwen slipped, and the rag that the nipper had been wearing tore like tissue paper into her hands. She made another attempt for a firm grip, using every ounce of strength. The motorcycle ever close, the engine blaring in her ears. Turning, she saw the bike come over the hill, screaming towards her. Gwen dropped the nipper and ran for it, leaping pell-mell into the vegetation. Ducking into the brush, she pivoted and waited, curiosity, forever being the bitch.

So she waited, fighting the urge to cup her ears to keep out the unforgiving noise. At last, the bike went by, Gwen barely catching sight of its rider, but just enough to see that it was in fact, male and that he had taken notice of the downed nipper. The bike slowed and it turned back, coming to a halt right alongside the section of brush that Gwen had hidden herself in. She dared not move or even breathe. Her eyes wide with fear and a sense of awe, she took in the rider. Taking note of the out of place wool poncho he was wearing. His back was to her, the most she could see were his choice of shoes, worn brown boots, and the fact that his jeans were in better condition than Gwen's. But, the thing that really caught her eye was his weapon. Which he held as if it were a third arm, just standing there, the crossbow looked as if it were really a part of him.

The man approached the nipper, his steps riddled with caution and a sort of grace. Despite the fact that he walked on cement, he hardly made a sound, odd, considering his choice of transportation. Gwen sized him as best she could. This guy could knock her over with a single punch. He seemed almost twice her size, and he also looked far healthier and less malnourished that she did.

He took a knee next to the nipper, studying it. From her standpoint, Gwen saw him focusing on its head. Taking in the position of the body as well as the streak of black blood that trailed from where she had shot it. Slowly, the man turned, and Gwen finally got a look at his face. His eyes and lips, those were the things she focused on. The biker's lips were thin, as if they were forever compressed in thought. As if he was stuck in this constant mode of contemplation and analyses. The piercing blue of his eyes added to the effect. It was almost unreal, their color. Their shape was small, making it look like the man was forever squinting, as if searching and seeing. It felt as if this man could see her, even when she was concealed behind walls of brambles.

Gwen licked her lips, on the verge of startling like a spooked deer as the man stood and made his way over to the road side, following almost exactly in her in footsteps. On instinct, she began to back up. Keeping her movements as light and quick as possible despite being on all fours, she had to get away, couldn't let him find her. No matter how fast she moved, he came nearer, staring fixedly into the trees. Fuck, he knew she was there, everything screamed that he knew she was right in front of him. Her muscles tightened and Gwen turned her back to him and sprinted. All she heard was his reaction, his voice rough and cut by some sort of southern drawl. "The hell!?"

She had no time to listen; instinct dictated that she needed to get out. Though, at times she caught the tell-tale signs of crunching of grass. He was behind her, shouting for her to stop. Gwen shut him out; he would hurt her if she listened. All her attention went towards getting away and listening for how close her pursuer was and he was not far behind. Suddenly, her foot caught, and Gwen was sent face first into the ground, she rolled, knocking head of various rocks, at one point felt her lip split. Finally, she stopped and lay splayed on the ground. Within second she sprung up, cleaver at the ready, the man stood before her, sizing her up. His own weapon loaded and aimed right at her head. Though for a second Gwen swore it looked as if he had no intention of harming her, but that thought was fleeting and was replaced by the threat of pain and possible death.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **_

_**I do hope you all enjoy this chapter. On the subject of Walking Dead, holy shit I don't think I've cried so much during something zombie apocalypse related. Christ, can't believe it'll be another seven months until the next season. So, speaking of zombies, there is not so well known graphic novel called "iZombie," seriously it's pretty fucking cool, I mean it takes place in my hometown but the art is amazing and the story is so unique, I'm not gonna give away anything because I want you guys to read it. Anyway, check it out, I think if you are zombie freak, you'll love that series of graphic novels.  
**_

_**So, please review, I can't know what my readers think and I can't improve unless they tell me so. **_


	4. Crotch Rocket

The stranger took a few steps closer; Gwen held her ground. She couldn't show weakness, such displays were a death sentence. Her grip tightened on her cleaver in an attempt to appear threatening. Her teeth barred slightly, a light coating of blood on them from her split lip. To the stranger, it was like watching one of them squirrels trying to be intimidating; it just didn't fit well in the case of this skinny as shit thing. The long legs and brown eyes made her look almost deer like. Legs set and ready to bolt, that position alone proved her one that would rather run than fight. Not without good reason, if she hadn't lost her footing, she'd have gotten away. The girl was fast, he'd give her that.

Despite her physical timidity, there was something to consider when he took in the dried walker remains. It looked as if she had been applying the flesh and blood for days, probably longer. Hell he could smell her from here. Smart move, she knew walkers, she knew that they relied on living scent. If you smelled of them and drew little attention to yourself, they wouldn't look at you twice. "Ya bit?"

Again, came that drawl, it was offbeat on her ears. Gwen had been avoiding the livings for so long; she had grown accustomed to silence, omitting the constant hissing and growls that the nippers made as well as the comfort of her own voice. She could only stare at him, mulling over the sound of his voice, the accent, and the tone as she tried to work the question in her head. It was like she had forgotten oral language itself, had gone selective mute in the last several months. Her eyes darted to her left arm; the stranger followed the gaze and took in the injury, crossbow at the ready, he came closer. Gwen stiffened ready to bolt, only kept in place by the threat of the arrow aimed right at her head. Again, she looked at the fake bite, Christ, it was peeling. Her eyes slid upwards, he looked right back. Searching her face, keeping her attention while he drew closer, his eyes snapped to her arm, they squinted at the supposed bite. Out of nervous habit, her tongue flicked out to lick her chapped lips. Sampling the blood, tasted like rust, smelled like metal. Unconsciously, Gwen began to back up.

A twig snapped, and the pair swung around, weapons at the ready. A few nippers had stumbled into the stand-off. Upon seeing and smelling fresh blood, they hissed and advanced. Seeing her chance, Gwen tucked tail and ran while the redneck was otherwise occupied. Had to get away, had to hide. Hissing and gnashing of teeth at her back. The only places that seemed safe were the trees. After putting a good distance between herself and the man, she aimed for a possible sanctuary. Tucking her cleaver away, she grabbed for the lowest branch and hoisted herself up. The bark carved into her hands, adding more to the hide-like calluses, Gwen barely registered the cuts. Fear and adrenaline were a perfect distraction. Adjusting into a crouched position, she waited, she listened. All was silence now, hopefully he got bit. Taking a few breaths, she built up her saliva and spat out a revolting combination of spit and blood. Gwen blinked, head quirking a couple inches. How could she think that, something so royally fucked up? Wishing a bite on a person, the first human being she'd seen in months. Well, the answer was blatantly obvious, this was a different world, and you couldn't trust anyone for shit. Yet, something was gnawing at the back of her mind, something that was rearing from that part of her brain that refused to let go of the old ways. What if he wasn't a bad person? What if he meant to help her? For a moment, she thought she caught something besides wary in his voice, for split second she had thought her heard a strain of genuine concern laced in. What if….?

Gwen sat down on the branch, back against the trunk, wringing her hands. Christ, what if the nippers overtook him, he might really be hurt and she was wasting time messing around with her thoughts. Still, what if he was just as bad as she thought what if she did go back and he jumped her? She killed people before, out of defense. Wouldn't bat an eyelash if he met the business end of her cleaver, but he was bigger than her, could disarm her no problem. "Unbelievable."

With a sigh, she began to dismount the tree, landing lightly on her feet. After spending several minutes going back the way she had come to the place where the stand-off had happened. A few nippers were strewed about the grass. Gwen supposed they probably wreaked something awful, but for the past few weeks the smell really didn't knock her off her feet like it used to. It was to be expected though, she smelled just as bad if not worse, and naturally bad smelling people rarely noticed their own stink.

She walked among the corpses, grip firm on her cleaver. Sometimes getting a nipper in the head was just not enough. Once, Gwen cleaved a good bit of the face and brain off, but the bastard kept coming. Judging they the holes in the eyes or in the foreheads, she was safe from having to apply the so called 'double tap' method. The stranger had taken his arrows, none of them had been abandoned to the nippers, the guy was smart, knew to conserve ammo. One of the nippers stood out among the others, looked like a fresh one. Woman, with short brown hair, its ears glinting due to the rings that decorated the now dead flesh… And what appeared to be a fresh pair of jeans. Gwen looked over her shoulder and then ahead. Kneeling, she grabbed for the back of the pants and inspected them, the nipper was about her height, probably weighed the same when living. Though, lack of food had taken everyone down several pounds. The apocalypse! The perfect weight loss program! The pants looked to be in good shape, a few tears here and there, but in better condition than the pair Gwen had on. Nodding her satisfaction, she grabbed the nipper by the legs and began to pull it away from its downed fellows. After finding a suitable spot, she began to yank the pants off the nipper, trying to avoid the rotting flesh of its legs coming off with the jeans, no easy task. There was a ripping and a squelching sound and black blood began to dampen the pants. Gwen pulled back, letting go of the nipper. Well, that was pointless, she glared at the bitch, watching as the chunks of flesh and congealed blood began to ooze through the material. With a sneer, she gave the nipper a good hard kick, relishing in the sound of its ribs cracking. What did she expect? It was probably a month or two dead, but far enough along to smell of rotting flesh.

Giving the nipper a final kick, Gwen continued on, perhaps the stranger was gone. Maybe she got too far into the woods to hear the roar of the bike when he left. After several minutes, Gwen was back on the sidelines of the highway. There was the motorcycle, it'd been moved into the brush so no one would steal or loot it. Gwen hadn't seen a motorcycle in a very long time, for that matter she hadn't seen a car in a good long while either. She'd been avoiding straying onto the main roads for the last few weeks, preferring to keep out of sight. Seeing the bike brought back memories of her college boyfriend, Scott Saunders. His had been one of those crotch rockets, pretty damn gay in retrospect. But at the time, Gwen had felt fucking awesome riding with him… He cheated on her with this bartender named Jack, worked at the campus pub. Looking back, it made sense why Scott took so many bathroom breaks when Jack left the bar to restock.

Smirking at the memory, Gwen stretched out her hand and ran her fingers over the metal covering just below the handlebars and in front of the seat. Pulling away, she walked around the bike. She could go through the bags, maybe he had some food. What did she care if he missed it, he was big guy with a crossbow he could get all the food he wanted. Just she found herself reaching to unlatching the flap of the bag; a pair of rough hands grabbed her shoulders and shoved her away from the bike.

Landing on her ass, Gwen looked up right into the business end of a crossbow. The stranger glared down at her. Christ, he looked pissed. Probably more than a hundred pounds of sleeveless, dirty, angry, redneck, that did not bode well at all. Gwen went for her cleaver, but he raised an eyebrow at her. "Wouldn't do that if I were ya."

Her fingers twitched, inches away from the handle of her weapon. Her eyes never left his as she pulled her hand away, and returned it to supporting her weight. "Ya bit."

There was that question again, more a statement really. His eyes were on the fake bite, though it seemed more obvious that it was a fake. Taking a chance, she shook her head and spoke to him for the first time, a single word. "Fake."

The stranger looked at her. "So ya do talk?"

Why was he looking at her, it was fucking weird! Gwen turned her attention to the bit of asphalt in front of her, as if it were the most interesting thing in the fucking world. The man caught on, nodding. "You alone."

Again, there was that question phrased like a statement. Still not looking at him, she nodded. "How long?"

This time she looked up. Her doe brown eyes squinted in confusion. The grip he had on his crossbow began to slacken, but he kept it trained on her. Though almost half-heartily. She wasn't gonna do anything, hell she could barely talk to another human being, that was saying something. By that alone, the stranger knew she was better at handling walkers than the living. If anything she feared other survivors over the dead. "How long you been alone?"

Her eyes went to the road; she was thinking trying to figure out how many days, weeks, months. God, she'd been alone from the beginning. A memory of the earlier days began to burn in her mind. The screams and the wild hoots that floated on the air towards her tree. The blaze of fire almost a mile away, the gunshots, children crying, women begging, all she could do was listen, do nothing but listen while the suffering followed her into sleep and created a swarm of fresh nightmares. She'd never had a group, never wanted to join one after that. Gwen looked up at the stranger, unaware that a few tears were starting to spill over; carving paths in the gore that caked her cheeks "always."

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_**Author's Note: I apologize for the long wait on the update. I've been busy with school and work. Well, I do have a Walking Dead related thing. I got my 68 year old grandmother addicted to the show, despite her constant expressions of "I don't like the gore, it's all gore, no story." Spent the better part of last week watching the first and second season of the show so she could catch up. Sadly, she still doesn't understand why Daryl is my favorite character, she keeps saying he's just an angry redneck with a crossbow and amazing arms. True the attitude and those arms (those glorious arms, so muscu...sorry) but he's a very complex character, and he has the best freaking lines. **_

_**So, I hope you guys like this chapter, hope Daryl is true to his character. Gwen is meeting him at around the beginning of season 3 (some of you said you were a bit confused). I figured that it made sense that the group would send one or two scouts out to look for a safe place. Anyway, tell me what you think! **_


	5. Contemplating Murder

Tears, really, she was actually crying? After all this time, alone and she could have done it. But now, in front of the first person she'd seen in months, fucking tears were there. Where did emotion come from for God's sake?! Quick as she could, she swiped them away, hoping the man hadn't seen them. Her next words came off rough "Long's it been?"

The stranger stared at her. Something like her couldn't have possibly survived so long alone, just wasn't possible. "Almost a year."

Gwen nodded slowly. "Sounds bout right."

What now? He had eased up a bit with the grip on that crossbow; but it was still aimed almost lazily at her face. What did manners dictate she do, exchange names, introductions? Were those still considered ok at this moment in time? The stranger seemed a bit at a loss himself, though he was taking the silence to size her up. Gwen had grown accustom to the hush of the past several months, but in the presence of another, it was uncomfortable. She snorted inwardly; the discomfort was probably a remnant feeling of her past self. Perhaps in this situation, Gwen could see it as a good idea to follow custom and proceed with introductions. "What's your name?"

His eyes narrowed for a moment. "What's it to you?"

Gwen made the attempt to get up, only to have the crossbow shoved in her face again. At this, she glared at him. "Just a name"

The crossbow, at long last was lowered. "Daryl Dixon, you?"

Simple name, strong name, it was a good name. Nodding Gwen introduced herself "Guinevere Harper."

Dixon raised his eyebrows. "Sort of name is that?"

Was he laughing at her? Gwen sneered up at him. "It's my name."

He shouldered the crossbow, his lips lined with a smirk. "Fucking weird name."

Gwen stood, grabbed her cleaver and took a couple steps back to distance herself, mumbling, "Ass."

He glared. "Got somethin ta say girly?"

After brushing the dirt off her ass, Gwen matched the look he gave and shook her head. That said or unsaid, she adjusted her pack and turned toward the trees and began to walk away, only for Dixon to call at her. "The hell're you goin?!"

At this, she looked back and shrugged. "Away from you."

Hearing the shuffle of the grass as Dixon stepped off the road, she also caught the insult he muttered. "Bitch"

She turned, and fixed him with a glare. "I come back to make sure you don't get offed by nippers, and you're calling me a bitch?"

His eyes rolled, the next words came at a growl "Can handle em myself."

Shaking her head, she snorted with forcing out a rather weak laugh. Gwen hadn't laughed in a long time. With nothing else to say, she made for the trees and broke through back into the confines of the forest. Didn't take Dixon long to catch her. "Got somethin ta say?"

Why was he trying to talk to her, she wasn't interested in making connections with people, especially men. Gwen sped up her pace, and he followed suit. The pair came upon a small collection of nippers. Without the slightest hint of hesitation, Gwen put the first down with what could be defined as an overzealous swing of her cleaver. The same treatment was given to the second, but as she reached the first, a bolt flew just past her cheek and buried itself in the last nipper's head.

Gwen glanced over her shoulder, exchanging yet another glare with Dixon. Only 5 minutes of conversation and he was already pissing her off. See, this is why she hated being a groups, people like him. Everything was a fucking cock contest. The look in his eyes, the face may have not betrayed emotion, but he was definitely baiting her. Kneeling down, she cleaned the black blood off on the shirt of what used to be a well-endowed red head; she turned to look at Dixon. "I've killed more than you."

The redneck pushed past her and grasped the bolt, yanking it from the confines of the nipper's head. "Sure ya have, skinny thing like you."

Sarcasm, what a fucking prick! Pulling back on her heels into a crouched position, she watched him. Gwen could kill him, right now. He had his back turned. She could kill him and steal his supplies, the crossbow, that stupid poncho (looked ridiculous, but it also looked warm), maybe even the motorcycle. Wasn't like there was anybody around to punish her for murder, no one could blame her, survival was key. He was cleaning his bolt; she could do it right now she could do it. Gwen's grip tightened on her cleaver at the very thought, her mind racing.

Her legs tensed as she readied to spring, ready to bury the blade in his skull. Before she could, he turned. His eyes locking with hers, her posture slacked, her grip weakened. What was she thinking? This was wrong, everything about killing this guy was fucking wrong. She'd never killed a living before; sure, she'd led a few into a horde of nippers and in doing so killed them. That didn't count, she'd never killed another living hand to hand, never saw the life leave their eyes, only to be replaced by the rage of the infection. Gwen swallowed, and proceeded to stand, returning her cleaver to its makeshift holster.

* * *

Did he know that she had thought of killing him? Night had come, and such thoughts had been abandoned by Gwen only a few hours ago. Now the pair could be found sitting in the presence of a fire. The hours they had spent together had been in nothing more than silence. A fat winter squirrel was cooking over the fire, courtesy of the redneck's crossbow. After nailing it to a tree, he hunkered down and went about gutting and cleaning it. Not sure what to do, Gwen gathered some sticks and started to make a fire, wary of its size to avoid attracting unwanted attention and careful to make sure it was enough to cook the meat. Without a word, the hunter speared the rodent and placed it over the fire.

Dixon gave little explanation of his intentions, whether he would leave in the morning or stay. Gwen wasn't sure how to react to either situation, and couldn't bring herself to ask the questions that burned in her. All she could do was focus her attention on shared meal as the flames seared the meat. Avoid the man's eyes, and ignore how uncomfortable she felt under his surveillance, he had been watching her since they sat down.

When the two felt that the meat was cooked enough to eat, they began to pick at it over the fire. Winter was a good time to hunt; the animals had a tendency to be fatter because they had bulked up in the fall. The fat from the squirrel burned Gwen's fingers, but she gave little notice, she hadn't eaten all day. Her canned supply was running low and she started rationing her breakfast down to no breakfast at all. Dixon seemed take notice of how Gwen was scarfing down her share of the meat, without a word he stopped eating though he could have done with more food. The girl was skinny, to the point of sickly, hell she could have given Olive Oil a run for her money at one point. She wasn't gonna live long looking like that.

When nothing remained of the squirrel but the bones, Gwen made for the nearest tree. "What're you doin?"

Oh, right, sleeping in trees is not a shared practice. Not bothering to turn around she pointed to her temporary bed. "Bed."

He chuckled. "Seriously, you a hippy or somethin?"

Bastard would have had a field day if he knew she came from Oregon. Turning she sneered at him. "Last I checked, nippers can't climb trees."

Again, there was that obnoxious chuckle. "We call em walkers an geeks."

Why was this guy such a fucking prick? "Call em what you want, I call em nippers, good night!"

Instead of choosing the nearest tree, Gwen went for one further away from the camp. With little strain, she managed to reach a sturdy branch and went through the process of strapping herself in. Pulling out the tarp she threw it over herself, looking at the sky she watched for the clouds to clear. Maybe tonight she'd see the stars. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the warm glow of the campfire go out, and she heard movement on the grass, what if he left?

Gwen turned a little to get a better look, seeing a familiar figure making his way toward her tree. His head up, trying to find her, thought she'd never admit it, Gwen calmed by his presence. He'd said 'we' back at the fire, the redneck must have a group somewhere, must be nice.

* * *

**Author's Note: Sorry, I know it's a bit short. But it's been a long week for me, seeing that it was week 5 of the spring term. I just finished up midterms as well as a couple papers. So my attention was focused on those. Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter despite the shortness, and I hope you find Gwen's thoughts of murder believable. I also hope that Daryl is in character. So, feedback would be lovely!  
**

**Update a little after publish of 5th chapter: Sorry, I felt a sudden hit of inspiration, and I felt this ended the chapter better. **


	6. Proof

Morning came on fast. Wasn't much of a surprise, such was the way of living day to day. Night was never long enough, close your eyes for what you think is a minute. Only to open them every more than once at the slightest rustle or misplaced sound, this continues long into the first hint of dawn. Every fucking night, a decent 8 hours sleep was near impossible. Even then, with another living just under her tree, Gwen achieved no sleep, not even a mere 5 second lapse in consciousness. Her eyes remained wide, her cleaver within reach and her pistol loaded and ready, trust no dick, words to live by.

His attack never came, and she assumed he had left later in the night, this theory had been disproved when she heard him get up at one point and walk around for a bit, then he came back to his spot under the tree. Not long after, she caught the sound of his breathing, conscious but calm. He hadn't seemed intent on causing her any harm, other than rattling her cage from time to time. The man was an obvious alpha, and in the case of dealing with Gwen, she sensed this strange desire to protect her…. Needless to say she wasn't use to this attention, nor was she fond of it.

His insistence on following her yesterday had been unnerving. He wasn't much of a talker, but when he did vocalize some form of an opinion, he mostly grunted it, and when some words came out of his mouth, they could hardly kind. When she went about her business, setting snares he'd shake his head when she showed obvious signs of being novice when it came to catching her own food. Mostly in the case of where she set the traps, the places she chose weren't bad but they weren't good either. When Dixon felt a better location could be chosen, he grabbed the wire from her hands and set it elsewhere; ignoring the huff of anger and the glare Gwen gave him.

Around midafternoon, Gwen had gained another tear in her jeans, resulting in yet another heavy application of duct tape, much to Dixon's amusement and he went as far as to laugh about the fact that a woman didn't have the sense to learn how to sew. Gwen's reply was nothing more than a glare and the quickening of her pace, the more time she had spent with this man; the less she wanted him around. In his company she felt suffocated, and to her own surprise, she longed to be alone again. Though, when thinking on this, regrettably, Gwen also had to see the good in being around him. The lack of fellow human interaction had taken a toll on her. Though she wanted him to take up his crossbow and silent amusement and that obnoxious stench of male dominance, another part of her wanted him to stay with her, and if he did leave, that part wanted to go with him…. Gwen hated that part.

* * *

Eyes diverting to observe the ground, Gwen found no nippers. The sun was slowly coming up, leveling itself with the trees. A sigh passed her lips, heavily laced with exhaustion, she went about her business, reciting her mental questions and answering them as she unlatched herself and re-looped her belt…She'd forgotten the name of her best friend in middle school, they stopped being friends in high school and she couldn't remember why. For a second, she paused trying to call back that bit of information, only to bite her lip in frustration and give up her mental search for that particular memory.

Gwen dove her hand into her bag, hoping she'd find one more can of food to sate the morning hunger…No cool metal cans greeted her fingers. Muttering about making a run to the nearest town, she folded her tarp and restored it to its rightful place. Set and ready to face the morning, she climbed down the tree, finding Dixon sitting under it, eyes closed, sound asleep, his crossbow lying across his lap loaded and ready in the case of a nipper attack. Not wanting to wake him, she made the choice to quietly dismount, as opposed to her usual climb halfway down and jump. When she reached the ground, Gwen crouched, balancing on the balls of her feet. Observing the sleeping man, even unconscious he seemed on edge.

What to do, what could she do? She could leave…..She could leave right now and he'd never find her. Still, was that the smart thing to do? How much longer could she last on her own? Letting her devour half his portion of the squirrel last night had not gone unnoticed. Dixon saw her as too thin, maybe even sickly, the way he looked at her. Though Gwen had been running like this for a while, it wouldn't take much else to collapse and kill her in the long run. She needed other people, she needed that security, and as asinine as it was, she needed Dixon; he was her only chance to join a group. Ditching him would result in her eventual death, and for some reason, despite the world being complete and utter shit. Gwen didn't want to die, not just yet. If she was gonna get through this, she needed to attach herself to people, just for a bit. If things got harry nothing could stop her from leaving them. Then again, what if she developed some attachment, what if she needed to abandon ship, but would not do it even if it risked her life?

Out of habit, she ran her hand over her head, fingers intent of grasping what remained of her hair. Her other hand brushed along her frame, feeling the ribs just under her breasts. They were prominent, now more than ever. Not entirely visible to the naked eye, but they were getting there. Another few weeks with low food and bad snaring, they'd be jutting out just under her flesh. If she was gonna make a decision it had to be now. She'd die out here eventually, alone, without anyone to put her down after. With a group, there was at least some remaining shred of decency that would make someone give her lead poisoning before she came back biting and brainless. Gwen did not want to end up like the faces that haunted her nights, the gaping maws of broken gnashing teeth. Every time they pushed through as she slept. She would see her face, as wells as those she'd once known among the masses of the dead. Gwen was determined not to end up like them. "Not gonna die."

Pulling up from her crouch, she paced, thinking. How would she go about getting him to take her with? Begging was out of the question, it only showed weakness and desperation. If anything, she needed to come off as strong and able. Those were the kind of people that were sure to survive in a world this. Granted, she was alive now, but that wasn't convincing enough. A display of determination was central. Gwen halted her pacing, looking back at Dixon. Nodding her satisfaction, she approached the sleeping man and jabbed him in the side with her foot.

The reaction was seamless. Within two seconds, the crossbow was back in her face. Forcing back every urge to flinch, Gwen glared at the redneck. His eyebrow quirked, "Got a reason fer wakin me?"

Adopting a glare, she brushed the crossbow aside and then proceeded to shove him away. He was too close; she didn't like it. Gritting her teeth, to avoid yelling Gwen muttered "Chores."

* * *

_**Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait on this chapter. I've been kept away due to the last couple week of the Spring Term in college, my job, and the joys of looking for another job. Anyway, I do hope this chapter was worth the wait. I promise there will be more interaction between these two, though I am still mulling over what Dixon would even think of Gwen... thoughts from my readers would be lovely. Anyway, so favorite, alert, review, all that jazz! **_


	7. Speak

So they did chores, despite Dixon's insistence on splitting up. Gwen had none of it, and refused to explain her reasoning. Throughout their time together, like the night before, she spoke little. Yet, she seemed occupied with her thoughts.

That did nothing but rub him the wrong way. The redneck knew himself as careful and often suspicious of others, but this one was pushing the limits. At every turn, she was watching him. He came to close; she would move to keep her distance. If he went too far off, she was right behind him. If anything, it was like dealing with a stray dog, doesn't want to be touched, touch it and it'll bite, try to walk away and it follows. It wants to be close, but not that close. Though, what did he expect out of a person who claimed to have been on their own since the world went to hell?

While they were collecting water, he managed to get a better look at her. In the light, he could see that at one point she might have passed for….pretty, maybe beautiful. Her skin was a very light shade of brown, but it had taken on an unhealthy pallor; the stray bits of dark hair were beginning to come back, cork screwing as they did. Taking notice of the remains of the fake bite as well as the fresh remains of jellied blood and walker bits, he tried to pull her into conversation. "Why the fake?"

Gwen didn't even pause, or spare him a glance. Her answer came out monotone. "Would _you_ risk gettin _your_ jolly rancher bit off?"

Before he could form a reasonable retort, there was movement from across the stream. Harper stiffened, head shooting up, eyes narrow, yet she never dropped the canteen. Dixon did the same, swinging his crossbow to the front, ready and waiting. A lone nipper stumbled out of the brush. Gwen rolled her eyes and went back to the canteen. It wouldn't notice her. Earlier this morning when Dixon had nailed yet another squirrel to a tree, she slipped off and applied her camouflage. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Dixon pull the trigger of his crossbow, hitting the fucker dead center.

Surprisingly, she broadened her explanation. "'Raiding a Costco and some guys ended up coming through while I was there. They saw me, got real excited. Backed me into one of those freezer rooms, didn't have anything long range to use on em. Nipper jumped me, I screamed. I was in there for 'bout 10-15 minutes hacking the bastard to death, then it went all quiet and I started hearing em talk, saying shit about banging a corpse. I got an idea, I felt really stupid and I thought it wouldn't work. I bit my arm, hard enough to leave a bruise and draw blood. I didn' think it was convincing enough, but they weren' all that smart."

She went quiet; this was the most she had talked in a long time. Pursing her lips, she screwed the cap on. Tonight, she'd pour it through a pair of nylons she had for this particular purpose, and then boil it for the next day. In the silence, Dixon had gone across to retrieve his bolt. Turning he looked at her. "That ain't real blood er skin."

Gwen swallowed, the dry in her throat felt like sandpaper, this was progress for her, wasn't gonna shut up just yet. So instead of going quiet, she shrugged and explained. "Theatre make-up class in college."

He was coming back from the other side. "So yer a college girl?"

Shoving the canteen into her bag, she shook her head, wasn't anything to boast about now. Shit, working to achieve higher learning was looked upon so highly in the old days, but now, now it was worthless. Time would have been better spent learning to hunt, scavenge, and fight. Christ, she wouldn't have been this skinny if she had taken all the hours and sleepless nights spent on studying for a pursuit that meant nothing and put it into spending more time with her Grandfather. On the bright side, at least she wasn't up to her eyeballs in debt with FA loans. Gwen let out a snort of laughter; at least something good came with the end of the world. She wasn't left to rot working at minimum wage, cut from full-time to part-time because the big man didn't want to hand over the benefits. Yeah, positives always think of the positives.

That was when her stomach started to growl, right, food. Getting up, Gwen shouldered her bag and watched as Dixon reloaded his crossbow. Once that was taken care of, she spoke. "There's a town a few miles from here."

He raised an eyebrow. "How'dya know that?"

Shrugging, she popped her back. "Noticed a sign on the road, we've been going straight, few miles from the street. Fuck, I could do with an actual map though."

* * *

_**Author's Note: I apologize for the long wait on this chapter, seriously, Daryl Dixon is a very difficult character to write. I've worked with a ton of characters from different medias. He has to be one of the more difficult ones to try and get in-tune with in the case of his thoughts, how he looks at people, and even in what he does and doesn't say. Really fucking hard, so I hope this portrayal does him justice. **_

_**Question for my Darling Readers!: **_

_**Alright, I've been trying to figure out what Gwen may have studied in college. I don't want her to pursue anything past a basic Ba (or whatever else you call it in other fields, I've an English major people, that's what I call it). I was thinking journalism with a minor in something. Still, I am not sure. So I am putting this question to you my lovelies. Give me your answers in a review or private message, whatever is fine. **_

_**As for my excuse as to why I've been away. I am on the last day of week 10 for the Spring term at school, then week 11 brings finals. I've hit the point where if I sit of even lie down. I will, most likely pass out and sleep for a good four hours. Hell, I just woke up only to take a shower, finish doing this and then go right back to bed so I can get a final review session in tomorrow morning.**_


	8. Trust

Before hitting the town, Gwen went out for the snares, gathering what had been caught. One pitiful excuse for a rabbit, rout with worms and parasites (it even smelled sick, not worth it).With a shudder of disgust, she tossed it into the bushes. Rolling up the guitar string, she thought on it. She could have eaten that thing, fuck she was probably carrying a ton of parasites courtesy of the water she'd been drinking. One shot of that drug that knocks you out for surgery, and they'd probably start crawling out of her eyeballs or something. On that note, Gwen forced down the bit of bile that leapt into her mouth. Couldn't afford to toss up what little there was in her stomach. Besides, there were worse things than inner parasites. There was starvation, dehydration, being raped, being eaten, being turned. Parasites were the least of her troubles.

Dixon stood close by, keeping watch. Every once in a while he'd train his eyes on the woman. The girl got lost in her thoughts easily, made sense, what else could she do? She hadn't spoken for about an hour now, preferring to stay quiet. Had nothing against it, if anything he preferred the silence, he needed the time to think. Think about what to do with Harper, this consumed a good portion of that time.

Though she hadn't disclosed her desire to go with him, he could tell. The way she would check to make sure he was close by. The fact that she wouldn't allow him to stray from her sight was also a bit of a giveaway. Instead of saying anything, she was selling her skills and survival strengths. This brought on the question 'how would Rick react to a new addition?' The man had become very settled in the current dynamic of the group. A new member would throw that. Daryl respected Grimms and his decisions as the head of the group. Needless to say, he'd understand Rick if he were to be displeased with a new member, another mouth to feed, another person to worry about, a stranger among the family, and quite possibly, a threat.

Harper was smart though, she was well aware that being part of group required the ability to earn your keep. Despite the fact that her attempts at acquiring food weren't all that impressive, she made a point of displaying her use. Dixon was starting to see the positives in bringing her back with him. More muscle to the group, an extra set of eyes, and someone who was slowly but surely perfecting snares.

Sure, she could trap, but one look at the sickly rabbit she threw away, as well as the unstirred snares, he concluded that this place provided little. Harper wouldn't last much longer here, and even if she left, it would take weeks to reach good hunting grounds on foot. Not to mention the fact that she was a woman. Even with her fake bite, the end of the world made monsters out of everything, including the living. She was smart enough to know this, and it made her aware of her own mortality. Dixon liked that, Harper wasn't over confident; she had just the right amount, that's why she had survived on her own for so long.

Rick wouldn't like the idea at first, but Dixon could get him to see it. So would Gwen, she was working this hard to prove her worth to Daryl, he could only imagine how she'd go about getting Grimms to fully accept her into the family.

* * *

Gwen packed up the last of her snares, the sick rabbit being the only the thing caught. She felt worry crawl into the pit of stomach, worsened by the gnawing hunger that was starting to make her feel slightly sick. She'd gone without food before, but stores and homes usually turned out some sort of meal. At least, until about a month ago, it started with one place being completely cleaned out, and it progressed to other places to the point where even considering going on a raid felt like a waste of time. Gwen knew this would happen, eventually. Apparently it was happening faster than she had expected. If anything, she really hoped it was bad luck. Biting her lip, she glanced up at Dixon.

Take the rest of morning to reach the town, a least a 10 hours walk, 8-9 if they walked quickly. They couldn't go into the houses or stores at night, livings may require sight, but nippers were perfectly able when it came to hunting in total darkness. Shouldering her bag, Gwen stood. "We'll reach the town by nightfall."

Testing the waters now, mentioning that it would be a very long journey could make Dixon feel more incline to say something about take his bike. It'd be faster, but letting her ride with him required varying degrees of trust from on his part and hers. Gwen could easily shoot him while she sat at his back (though that wouldn't end well, motorcycles didn't come with autopilot or anything), he could push her off and let get brained on the road.

For a moment, Gwen could feel an internal smile coming on, brought to life by a rather fond memory, something that her mother said to her. When she was in her mid-teens, the Harper family had system where a menu for meals was created. Every member of the family would cook at least a couple times a week. On one particular summer evening, during a particularly bad heat wave this ended up leaving everything at least at 100 degrees, that day had been Gwen turn to cook. Not wanting to turn on the oven or cook of a hot stove, she proceeded into the living room and proceeded to plant the idea of getting pizza and wings into her mom's head. She didn't want to deal with her father, who had been the one to create the menu (this resulted in him getting a tad over sensitive when the family went off the food schedule). In the end, mom went upstairs and did the asking for Gwen, and the Harper family had pizza for dinner. When Caroline came back downstairs, she looked her daughter and started going on about how she was a manipulative little cretin…

Looking at him out of the corner of her eyes, Gwen prayed that her mother's observation had been right. Even if she was forcing a trust between them, it was trust nonetheless, and that meant that she would be a step closer to being brought back to Dixon's group.

* * *

_**Author's Note: Alright, so we're getting a little bit more of a common goal between these two as well as a bit of trust (though Gwen is sort of forcing this to happen). **_

_**Hope you all like this chapter, and sorry it's been a bit since my last post, but I hope that this makes it worth it.  
**_


End file.
